


it feels like rain again

by whisperedwords



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Nightmares, Post 2x08, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:46:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2815937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedwords/pseuds/whisperedwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nightmares were never like <i>this</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it feels like rain again

**Author's Note:**

> please god give us some bellamy-comforting-clarke in this upcoming half of s2. i'll sell my soul for it.
> 
> (characters/ships/story/show do not belong to me, unbeta'd, etc.)

She wakes up screaming.

Of course, for Clarke, this isn’t anything unusual—the Ark fueled many of her nightmares, most of which revolved around her father being sucked into space while she helplessly remained chained in her mother’s arms. She would wake up crying and alone on most nights, since Abby worked late shifts in the med bay near the end of her time in space. And she learned to clamp them down and lock the screams up inside her, only to be accessed when she’s working on a sketch, or a painting. And that was that.

But the nightmares were never like _this_. Because here, she was a monster, with bloodied hands and a matching knife and part of her heart shredded to pieces. Finn’s body is slumped against the sacrificial post, and she feels the knife drive into his heart, feels his lips against her ear like he’s there with her now, like she still has Raven’s knife buried in the chest of the boy she loves. _Loved_.

She’s taken to sleeping away from her mother and Camp Jaha’s med bay and all the people ( _her_ people), to keep them away from these less-frequently occurring disturbances. It’s been weeks since her last real nightmare. But then she kills Finn, and that all changes.

Tonight, she’s screaming when she jerks awake, tears pouring down her face and hands shaking. “ _Thanks, Princess_ ,” is still echoing in her ears, and it makes her sick. She leans away from her bedding and dry heaves, her empty stomach giving her nothing to purge. Her yelling stops, but she’s still gasping for breath, still sobbing silently when Bellamy stumbles in, frantically rubbing sleep from his eyes as he takes in the scene before him. “Clarke?”

Her head snaps towards the direction of his voice, the sobs choking off for a moment. “What—shouldn’t you be sleeping? You’re on watch in a few hours.” Clarke desperately tries to keep her voice steady, but of course, of _course_ it starts shaking the moment her eyes meet his.

“What’s wrong?” Bellamy asks, ignoring her statement. Of course, he knows what’s wrong—he’d be lying if he said he didn’t have nightmares about the same thing—he just needs something to say to her, because he’s never truly seen her walls this low before. Questioningly, he looks at her, as if asking permission to fully enter her tent. She nods quietly, and he kneels down next to where she’s currently half-curled under her too-thin blankets. “Talk to me, Clarke.”

“I killed him.” She whispers. Her voice is too low for him to hear.

“What?”

“I _killed_ him, Bellamy.” She says louder, the tremor in her voice intensifying. “He told me that he loved me and I _killed_ him!” A sob wrenches its way from her throat, and in a heartbeat he’s got her pulled to his chest, cradling her head gently. “He’s _dead_ because of me! All he wanted was peace, and now—now—”

“You saved him, Clarke.” Bellamy’s voice feels weak, even to his own ears. He continues anyway. “You loved him, and you saved him.” But she’s shaking her head, her chest is rising up and down rapidly, and she’s choking, she feels like she’s _choking_ —“Clarke, _breathe_.”

“I don’t deserve to!” The words leave her lips before she can stop them, and Bellamy goes stiff as a board. “I didn’t just kill Finn. I killed—I killed Raven’s only family, and I killed our peacemaker, and I killed the first person I’ve ever really loved, and it’s all so heavy and I feel like I’m drowning all the time! I keep trying to breathe but it’s so hard, Bellamy, and it’s too much to carry all by myself, and—”

“You’re not by yourself.” His voice is steely and low and it cuts right through her. She stops talking. “You are _never_ by yourself, Clarke. You of all people should know—there are people here who will carry that weight with you.” He grabs her hands in his own, his thumbs brushing against her palms lightly. “I will carry that weight with you. Hell, all of our kids will. They need you.” His voice gets impossibly softer. “ _I_ need you.”

Clarke is still shaking. “I loved him, Bellamy.” She whispers, after a while. He lets go of one of her hands to cradle her head again. “What kind of person kills someone they love?”

“Someone brave enough to make the hard choices.” He replies. He intertwines their fingers together and squeezes her hand softly. The blood is still on her hands, he knows—she still sees it even though he helped her wash it off in the aftermath. (Raven had screamed her lungs out when she stumbled through the gates, and Clarke had shut down almost completely, and he had helped her to the med bay to scrub her palms clean of Finn’s blood. They shook violently, and he needed to hold them steady with one hand so the water wouldn’t splash all over the floor.

“I’ve got you, Princess,” He had mumbled, and she screamed at that—he learned later that was the last thing Finn said to her before he—well. Bellamy immediately erased the word from his vocabulary and focused on holding Clarke’s blood-streaked face in his hands and calming her down enough to stop her from hyperventilating.)

“Please don’t leave.” Her voice is a little more cracked, now, a little more broken than before. Her clammy hand squeezes his tightly, and _god_ , how could he leave her? How could he leave her like this? The answer is, he won’t.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Clarke presses closer into him, her face buried in his shirt and arms now wound around him. It hits him, then, just how tired he is—how weary he feels, how even though he’s only twenty-three he’s watched so many of his friends die.

He rests his head against Clarke’s, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. He’s not going to lose her.


End file.
